


The Queen and The Snake

by stungred



Category: Fallout 3, Fallout New Vegas
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stungred/pseuds/stungred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butch DeLoria finally reaches New Vegas, but discovers getting onto the Strip might be more difficult than he had planned before. Fortunately, he runs into a member of the Kings, a lady named Roy, who offers to give him a helping hand and maybe a little more if he'll behave for her. What that entails is a surprise to Butch, all the more because whoda' thunk he would be so into being bossed around and tied down?</p><p>Just a short drabble, with a possibility of a second part to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen and The Snake

Ah, civilisation! After months of travel, on foot through often miserable weather over terrain that left _a lot_ to be desired, he was here. The lights shone down from above, a sight sweet enough to make a lesser man cry. He, of course, didn't; it was just a bit of sand in his eye, goddamn Mojave was full of the stuff. Deserts, right?

Butch rubbed out the non-existent grit and took a deep breath. He began to stride towards his destiny, pompadoured head held high.

New Vegas, baby. An abundance of glitz and glam! This is where the Butch-man deserved to be. He'd earned his easy living after all that--that _shit_ that went down with Vault 101, and hell, simply getting out of the Capital Wasteland ought to have earned him a free pass. He was gonna steamroll this town, they wouldn't know what had hit 'em; they'd had it real simple here, they weren't ready for a real tough guy. Once he'd proved himself the man, he'd drink himself senseless to celebrate and sweep a chick or two off her feet. He was gonna live it the fuck up and nobody, not one single square  from the vault or anywhere, would tell him what to do.

Bring on the casinos, bring on the rock and roll, bring on the booze, bring on the chicks--

"Th' fuck you mean, credit check?" Butch responded waspishly to the New Vegas gate guard. It buzzed at him, a demand for caps, a whole lot of caps.

Butch didn't have that kind of money. He felt in the pockets of his leather jacket, emblazoned with the Tunnel Snake logo on the back. A cig pack and lighter, a comb and a half-eaten snack cake in its cellophane, a coupla--heh!--condoms and his Toothpick. The rest, even his backpack, he'd bartered off on the final stretch of road for a last Wasteland meal before he hit up the city.

He had more non-existent grit in his eye. Both eyes. He bared his teeth at the clanker.

"Fuck," he said, irritation building to anger. He didn't _have_ anything else. He wasn't even in Vegas, Butch now realised: he was on the fucking doorstep. Freeside. A goddamn slum! After everything, _everything_ , he ended up stuck just outside? "Fuck!" he repeated, louder and with appropriate vehemence. What was he supposed to do!? He was about to lay into a barrage of threats when a hand on his shoulder took hold and spun him around.

"Don't piss it off, unless you wanna get shot up. Back down," a low voice warned him. Butch looked with surprise, then contempt, at his would-be rescuer. A Tunnel Snake? But of course not--it wasn't Paul, who had been the only Black member of the gang. This guy wore a leather jacket and had dark hair styled up into an (inferior) coiffure, but that was it. It was a resemblance, not the real-deal. Just some Wasteland trash trying to make a good image, and now that he glanced down the street he spotted a few more of 'em around.

The King's, the jacket announced. A gang? _Hah fuckin’ hah._ This what what Freeside had going for it?

"Shyeah," Butch growled, "whatever, hands off if you know what's good for you!"

"You got it, pal-ly, blow yourself to smithereens. I'm not on corpse patrol so what do I care?" the gang member threw both hands up and took a step back. Butch noticed, for the first time, the long lashes on the half-lidded eyes, the full lips that flashed scarlet in the neon glare.

"What, are you wearing make-up?" he sneered. That was a real gutbuster, and he barked out a laugh. So they did their hair but they didn't stop there there! "What, you got frilly panties on, too--" Butch stopped. Although the King member hadn't moved, he sensed danger from the cocked eyebrow and downturned mouth. And he'd realised something.

There was a swell beneath the clean white t-shirt, a flare to the hips and a delicacy of jaw that meant he'd made an error in judgement. He stared at the upswept pompadour, afrotextured and stiff. Would it even shift in a breeze?

"Shit, you're a girl."

"Yep. Say, any more Tunnel Snakes around?" she asked.

"No, it's just me. Why?" he answered her warily.

"I just wanted to be aware, and give you a fair fight, you know? Keep it even odds. But that's fine, we can work this out just you and me." She still hadn't changed position to indicate she was going to slug him or stab him or whatever. Butch shifted on his feet, muscles tensed all the same. There were six other Kings he could see nearby, but she kept her voice low. Even odds? As if he'd worry about double, triple, whatever came after that, odds!

"You wanna throw down?”

"Depends. I'm not adverse to kicking your teeth in, but all you've done is been ignorant. You're new and stupid, sure--"

Ohhhh, no. He wasn't gonna stand for that. No one here was going to look down on him, not these gutter-rats.

"Fuck you, gutter-rat, you _do not_ get to look down on me! Think you know it all?" he yelled, hand inside a pocket. He'd draw if she said another shitty word, of she made a wrong move. It didn't matter if she was a foxy dame.

She smiled. Butch glared, even amid his sudden confusion. She said, "you want a proper Freeside welcome or not? You got the look, daddy-o, but if you pull a knife on me, you won't ever get into Vegas to strut your stuff. We Kings? We can go in. We can get you in. No credit check."

He wavered. Not because of the threat, or the smile--maybe a little for the smile--but because of the offer. "You clowns can do that?" He was still ticked off even if he was willing to listen.

She beckoned to him, with a flick of her amber eyes at the Securitron, and after a momentary hesitation Butch removed his hand from the Toothpick and fell into step beside her. They walked a short distance down the street and stopped by a trashcan fire. She pulled something from her pocket, which he looked at suspiciously, but he relaxed when he saw it was just a wallet. She fished out a piece of paper and held it so he could see it. When he reached, she jerked it away.

"Look with your eyes."

"Then hold it still, why don't ya'," he protested. She held the paper out again and he peered closely at it. A New Vegas ID for Esther Royce. "Esther?" he smirked.

"My name is Roy," she said, curtly. "This is a fake ID, but the bots can't tell. I can head into the Strip any time and haven't spent a cap on that credit check."

"Alright, so how do I get one in my hot little hands?" Butch asked, too eager for his own liking. Dial it down, Butch-man, dial it down--he eased away and held his hands out to the flames.

Roy told him, "that isn't up to me, mister. My boss would give the go ahead." She looked consideringly at him. "I could introduce you."

"And I'd have to join, right?" He already belonged heart and soul to the Tunnel Snakes. And _he_ was the boss, his own and the gang's.

"Or do something for us, a favour. This is Freeside, but nothing comes free," Roy told him.

He considered her and the other King members he could spot. "What d'you guys do?"

"Try and keep things peaceful in town, escort visitors to the Strip and out again, look damn good." She grinned at him, and Butch caught himself grinning back. The rest of them looked ridiculous, but now that he studied her she had the look down pat. Real classy. Those tight jeans showed really showed off her ass, too. She leaned toward him, a subtle shift that all the same reminded him of a snake, slow undulations belying a swift and deadly strike. "What do I introduce you as?"

"Butch DeLoria, of the Tunnel Snakes," he announced, shoulders back and chest puffed out.

"Hmmm. Not bad." Roy took his arm and, against the gentle tug, Butch followed. She didn't let go either, and led him steadily through the slum to a large brick building with a bright neon sign. In his haste to get into Vegas, Butch hadn't really looked around much and had missed the King's School of Impersonation. He raised his brows but had no time to comment as Roy towed him through the front door. The interior was a shamble, but there were worse places to be, Butch thought; and it looked like the result of fun, all the hooch bottles and pool cues and the music playing everywhere...

He could smell cologne, Slick's Quick-Stick Hair Gel, and cigarettes. It wasn't so bad, really.

Roy ignored curious glances and greetings, questions and catcalls and simply pulled him on, on, and on through the School. Through a side door and into a maze of halls, echoing with chatter, laughter, and occasional snatches of song, she hustled Butch up a staircase and along another stretch of hall to a room. It was empty of other people and she released him to shut the door.

Butch turned around with a half-smile in place, having spotted a twin mattress on a low brass frame. So she’d picked up on his interest? He always did like the clever ones, albeit not too clever, right? "Hey, now, toots--"

She struck like a viper, faster and stronger than he expected. He was pinned against the wall, a pair of hands splayed across his chest. Did the leather coat conceal a bodybuilder? But no, his hands--responding on autopilot--found a body that was hard with muscle but slim and trim, and he rested his palms on her hips. His heart beat faster, but she wasn't kissing him yet. Butch opened his eyes, head turned toward Roy. They were of a height, so she didn't have to crane her face towards him. He liked the look in her eyes, half-playful, half-predatory. This was one frisky cat he’d landed.

"Surely," she suggested, "you can think of something better to call me?"

Roy breathed it into his ear in that smooth, husky contralto, and Butch felt his knees go a little weak as her lips pressed to the side of his throat, leaving behind a faint imprint of her lipstick. It was a reverse of what normally went on--he did the pinning, the whispers, the kisses, the squeezes, the pinches...

"Uh, uh, ma'am?" he managed, drawing a blank as a shiver ran down his body.

"Nah," Roy said, and her teeth grazed the side of his neck beneath his ear. She wore a men's cologne but he liked the scent, mixed with leather. Her hands roved beneath his jacket, up his shirt and along his sides, just a little ticklish.

Butch offered, "honey," and she snickered and, abruptly, one of Roy's hands slid down fast and light between them to his thigh, close to where blood had begun to flow and flesh to stiffen. Butch's breath hitched as her fingernails dug in just enough to feel it but not enough for it to really hurt. The suction on his neck did, though, a pleasant burn that would leave a lingering mark. "God!"

"That's a bit blasphemous, my mama'd say," Roy spoke from the crook of neck. Then her hand, body, and heat withdrew suddenly, and he sagged, disappointed and relieved by turn. Roy had kept a grip on his shirtfront, however, and Butch tensed as she drew him forward and around. She shoved him, not exactly gently, and he stumbled back to land on his rump on the mattress, the bedsprings putting up a squeal. "Lay down, handsome."

He liked the nickname and the tone, but not being manhandled. Well… maybe, a little, it made his pulse race, the causal strength and control she was exhibiting being different from what he’d normally gotten up to. It had it’s allure. All the same, Butch scowled at her. "What're you doin'?"

"Nothing you're scared of, baby," Roy crooned, and of course that meant he must not, absolutely _must not_ disagree or he'd prove himself scared. No Tunnel Snake worth is jacket showed fear, and hey, he’d come here to live it up, right? Try something new, seek excitement? He did as he was told, and his arousal stirred again when Roy removed her jacket. He began to sit up and reach for her, but she slithered over him, straddled him, and Butch found them nose to nose. He leaned up, needing to kiss her, to do some act of his own devising, but his lips met her collarbone. Roy giggled a little as she leaned over him. "Put your arms up, Butch."

"Sure," he said, casually, but he felt a bit concerned. What was she doing? Something soft, thin and flexible wrapped around one of his wrists, pulled taught, then wove the other wrist--in a moment, his arms were bound above his head, wrists tied together and then to the headboard. He tested them, discovered the binds strong in material and knotwork, and found his pulse leap to a faster rate. Part of that was because he was finding this agreeable: and that just couldn't be right. But why not? He was trussed up beneath one foxy kitten, and he liked the way she was gazing at him with such satisfaction. He shifted beneath her and felt Roy press him down. Even if he liked this, he had to ask, "why?"

"It's fun, and you like it. I can feel that.” Her smile widened. “You look so good this way, too." Roy toyed with his lapels, then pushed his shirt up. Butch held his breath. "There's a sight I can appreciate." He exhaled. He wasn't scrawny, but it was hard to keep tip-top on Wasteland fare.

"And you?"

Roy leaned down and forward. "In time, Butch. You need to learn patience for me, and if you're gonna survive Freeside." He caught a hint of a smile before she kissed him, finally kissed him full and proper, but not heavily, wetly, or hotly. It didn't need tongue and open lips to rile him, however. Roy caressed his chest and ribs, fingers light on his nipples. That was a new sensation, not disagreeable but a little odd, but so long as she played tit for tat he wouldn’t complain. He could feel her breasts skim his bare chest through her thin shirt, and there was so little space between his crotch and that delectable apex between her thighs...

Butch arched. He found no contact for his erection, no pleasurable friction; she'd raised herself just out of reach. It frustrated him. The Butch-man wasn't used to this sort of thing: the binds, the waiting, the toying stimulation that kept him on edge. A good edge, it was true, but...

"C'mon," he hissed.

"We'll see," the King--Queen?--promised. Then Butch's heart leapt to his throat as she backed down him, suspended by her arms above his hips. His arms snapped at their bonds, and that only heightened the thrill as Roy placed a dainty trail of pecks down his bare stomach, stopping to nip the line of his hipbone.

"I've got condoms."

"That's smart of you," Roy said approvingly, and he groaned. He must have said the right thing or done what she wanted or looked the proper way because her hand was cupping his cock through his jeans, with experimental squeezes and a knowing up and down shift. Then her hand withdrew and her weight left the bed. Butch stared at her. "I just remembered, I have nothing for us to eat or drink," she said.

"So!?" he demanded. The brass bed creaked again as he tried to move his arms and rise.

Roy stepped closer and tugged his shirt down. "I'll be a few, just a run to the store. You keep patient and I'll think of something nice for you to do when I get back, hey?"

Butch considered this offer, and nodded. He wasn’t one to obey the rules, but when it meant some canoodling... Roy dropped a kiss on his lips, fetched up her jacket and left the room, the door shut behind her. The Tunnel Snake wiggled on the mattress to get comfortable, not sure what to do as he waited but turn his mind to carnal thoughts. When Roy returned, he'd be ready for her--he'd show her he could earn a Queen's favour.

His time in Freeside might not be so terrible. Why had he been in such a rush to get to Vegas, anyhow? Overpriced, that's what it was. Worth a visit, sure, but Freeside, it seemed, might be more his speed even if he had to pull some Kings aside and talk to them about dandruff and offer a free trim. Well, all in good time. For now, he had better things to do, like figure out why the hell being tied to a bed and told to wait was so sexy.

Maybe the Lone Wanderer had a point, and he did have a few issues after all.

 

 


End file.
